Oh Dear God, The Pain, The Pain, I Am Doubled Over With Pain, What Did You Ask me Just Now? Day!

You are clearly about to die. Use that. When someone for whom you care deeply asks if you care deeply for them, grab your belly and double over shouting, "Oh dear God, the pain, the pain, I am doubled over with pain, what did you just ask me?" Then fall to the ground and writhe. Then die.

Happy Oh Dear God, The Pain, The Pain, I Am Doubled Over With Pain, What Did You Ask me Just Now? Day! I think you just got away scott free again, baby.

Room For Rent Day!

Now that you've saved enough money, you can finally afford to move out of your Dad's apartment. It was fun for a while, him just recently freed from his marriage to your mom and coming up to the city to live the life he wished he'd lived. But then he just got really really depressed and didn't leave his room all that much. It sucks to have to pay rent again, but you just can't take it anymore.

Don't feel guilty. If you spend enough time around a Dad whose been broken, you're really gonna have problems erection-wise.

So go ahead and grab a number off one of the signs in the laundromat but don't call quite yet. Instead, go get drunk and just let your mind slow-dance with all the possibilities.

I wonder if my roommate will be a boy or a girl? Or a banker. An architect. A stripper whose trying to save enough money to fly her mother in from Caracas. What if my roommate dies and I get blamed for the murder. My, wouldn't that be an exciting turn of events! Or maybe my roommate will be the girl I fall in love with and marry! Or the girl who teaches me just how painful a broken heart can be! Or maybe my roommate will at least have sex with me for a while.

If my roommate offered me heroin, would I try it? I don't know. I've always been curious. And what if my roommate catches AIDS? Would it be my responsibility to care after him or would he understand when I decide to find another place. It was really depressing living with my broken father. I really don't wanna live with someone who has AIDS. I hope my roommate would sometimes ride bikes with me.

Roommate, roommate, roommate, what stories will we write together? What late night journeys will we embark upon just because we're feeling nutty. I hope my roommate gets broken up with so I can stay up and comfort him. And I hope my roommate likes late 80's industrial music just as much as me. Roommate, roommate, roommate. Roommates forever and ever, till the very, very end. Shower schedules and chore wheels and "Hey, who ate all my ice cream!" Hee hee.

Jesus.

Happy Room For Rent Day!

Claustrophobia Clint Day!

Today the building you work in will catch fire and many will be killed. You will be in an elevator when the fire reaches its peak, and the elevator will fail to drop directly to the lobby as it is supposed to do. Instead it will stop between the 22nd and 23rd floors. You will bang at the buttons and sound the alarm and try to pry the doors open with the bottle opener on your key ring, but to no avail. The car will fill with smoke and you will drop to the ground and think of pretty faces you're never going to see again. Then you will hear something.

A scratch of metal on metal. A pop and a racket. And then a shout.

"Take my hand!"

From the escape hatch in the roof of the car, an arm will wriggle down towards you. The arm of Claustrophobia Clint, a mythical urban hero who is overcome with a severe panic anytime he finds himself in small, enclosed spaces, but who for some annoying reason always seems to have to save people caught in small, enclosed spaces.

"I can't reach you!" You'll jump and fling your hand towards his but you'll never get closer than a foot below. "Come down and help me!"

"Fuck no! Jump higher!"

The smoke pouring in from the escape hatch will have completely filled your lungs. Your vision will grow faint and you'll fall to the corner with a cough that might never end.

"Oh fuck! I fucking hate this! Every fucking time!"

Claustrophobia Clint, who has tried behavioral therapy but never felt like he was making any progress, will shimmy through the hatch and drop to the ground. He'll grab your spastic frame from the floor of the elevator and sling you atop his shoulder, and then with one quick squat and a bounce the two of you will launch through the hatch and land on the roof of the car (he's a hero who can jump real high).

"Jesus that was terrible," Cluastrophobia Clint will say. "It really felt like the walls were closing in on me. God! Fuck! Fucking hell that was horrible."

Claustrophobia Clint will pry open the doors to the 23rd floor above you, and you will both climb out and find a stairwell to take you down to the ground. You will die on the 9th floor. Claustrophobia Clint will make it all the way to the ground and he'll live to keep on rescuing people from small, enclosed spaces. And every time he does, he'll wish he were dead.

Happy Claustrophobia Clint Day!

You Can Do Anything You Set Your Mind To Day!

Today, whether you want to quit drinking, quit smoking, quit daydreaming about pee, quit washing your 13 year old sister's hair, quit biting your fingernails, quit drinking, or quit drinking, you can do it. No matter what your goal is, all you have to do is set your mind to it and it's as good as done. At midnight tonight, this goal will be as unattainable as it was yesterday so make sure you have some beer, some cigarettes, some time to daydream about pee, a 13 year old sister waiting in the tub, some fingernails, some beer, and some beer lying around because after midnight you'll see no reason to abstain since you know you're gonna give in eventually because you're weak and most things are impossible.

Happy You Can Do Anything You Set Your Mind To Day!

Hit Your Boy In The Face With The Shallow Bony Center Of The Palm Of Your Adorable Little Hand Day!

You must be naked from the waist down but clothed from the waist up. He can be inside you or not, your choice. There is one thing that is not your choice however.

You must make his nose bleed.

Again, your cunt must be absolutely free of anything remotely close to clothing. Even if it's mere decoration, such as a little elastic belt with a few swaths of gauze that might flutter up above your belly button should they be caught in the gust of the air conditioner. You can, and should, wear a top. Whatever you like. A windbreaker even. And once more, whether the boy is inside you or not is irrelevant.

But you must slap the dead center of the palm of your hand down onto the poke of his nose with all the force you would use to murder a fly. And if his nose does not immediately gush with blood, you are no woman.

Recommended: The boy underneath you, the two of you stretched across the length of a bed, yours, the boy inside you (still irrelevant, simply recommended).

Also recommended: The boy with his back against a wall, you up against him, attacking the fool like a chunk of his cheek in your belly might offer you the secret to how some humans manage to love each other, the boy shirtless, the boy with defined pectoral muscles and untoned belly, the boy unfuckingcertain.

Non-Negotiable: Whether he's inside you or not, you must both be at the point whereupon it doesn't even matter anymore. Whereupon no one would even notice. Whereupon orgasms are for faggots. Whereupon you both are wondering if the other thinks your face is funny looking, like you're acting or something, because you both feel like you're making that fake fuck face but it's real, you both swear it.

Ultimately: Your little tiny baby girl hand will free itself of whatever it was digging its nails underneath, and your arm like a catapult will flip above your scalp and slam down fast like a rubber band in class and slap crisp, clean and stunning, dead center on the dent at the foremost tip of prettyboy's cave full o'boogie-snot. You will flatten his face. You will make him bleed from his face. You will blacken his eyes and fatten his upper lip and you will smother that boy in a puddle of blood and ugly.

If he doesn't like it, you did something wrong. Skipped a step or something.

Happy Hit Your Boy In The Face With The Shallow Bony Center Of The Palm Of Your Adorable Little Hand Day!

Steve Day!

Our apologies. Today is a special day. One year ago today, a promise was made and in keeping with that promise, today will be devoted solely to Steve, a dear, dear friend of Girls Are Pretty.

Steve, two of your friends have given birth to babies. One a boy, the other, a boy also. Steve, Kim is back living with her parents now. She's been gone six months and in six months more she'll be off to someplace else, probably San Francisco. Kim has an invitation to live there with your and our friend John and his new wife Alma until she gets settled (we all met Alma at Christmas. She's fantastic). Guess you figured Kim wouldn't be staying on in the apartment you two shared in Park Slope, Steve. Steve, the three of your friends who suddenly feel like they can do anything because they don't care about anything anymore are Lem, Christina, and Josephine. Steve, the two of your friends who feel like they can't get out of bed because they don't care about anything anymore are Lisa and Maureen. Don't worry Steve, we're all looking after them. Steve, Mark got another cat. It's a pretty little long-hair named Hilda. Steve, too many nights end with everyone just shaking their heads so crazily amazed at what a great fucking summer this is turning out to be. Steve, Sam and Moo are fucking again. And Leo and Beverly broke up, Steve, and Leo's seeing someone none of us have met yet, and Beverly is just coasting and coming out a lot more. Steve, Martha has a lot of money now. A ton of money. She said it was an inheritance from when her Dad died (Martha's Dad died, Steve). It's weird, Steve, having a friend who's all of a sudden rich. Martha doesn't buy drinks though, Steve.

Everyone went and had dinner at an outdoor mexican place last night and everyone had margaritas in their hands but no one toasted you Steve. In June a few of us got in Ray's car to drive to Philadelphia and Carrie was rooting through Ray's glove compartment for some cigarettes and she pulled out a picture of you. She held it up, we all looked at it, then she put it back in the glove compartment and continued looking for some cigarettes. Your birthday passed, and the anniversary of the day you and Kim met, the day you always threw a party, both those days passed without anyone saying a word. In the past year, I don't remember anyone ever saying out loud, God I wish Steve was here to see this, Steve. Steve, Jeff got a letter from your sister in March. He wrote back saying only that he hadn't heard anything either.

In short, Steve, everyone, every single one of us is absolutely beautiful in every single way. Whether we're smiling, fucking, crying, screaming, fighting, loving or drunk as God, we're all just the most beautiful people you ever did see. And you're nothing. You're not mourned, missed or reminisced over. You're just gone. As promised, today's Steve Day. Happy Steve Day, Steve.

Be One Of The Final Three Day!

There will be twelve to nineteen at the start. By around eleven, there will remain seven (three unemployed). By around 1:30, just four (two unemployed). At 2:30 AM, the final three will remain (one unemployed, two irresponsible). You three, you heroic, fearless fools with livers composed of layer upon layer of most glorious solid gold. You, the final three will tell each other secrets about your childhoods, your past and present loves, what you think is going to be the thing that breaks you in the end. You'll share secrets not so deep and not very dark, but secrets you're good enough to share at the end of the evening to do justice to a slurred conversation at such a horribly late hour. You'll stay till closing, proudly. You'll leave feeling there's something between the three of you that you can lord over the rest of the twelve to nineteen who're as settled into their good night's sleep as they are in their sedentary (read: Happy) lives. And the three of you will stumble from the curb with arms raised and shout at cabs that sail past without breaking stride. One will stop and either two of you or all three of you will share the cab but only two of you will get out together and screw. Try to be one of those two, too.

Happy Be One Of The Final Three Day!

Grandpa Misses Grandma Day!

Today, Grandpa feels like it can't get much worse, but he feels that way every day. Your Grandma died in her sleep a year and seven months ago and he's had no problem filling the hours. He's got money and he's been spending it (why leave it all for you?). But he just cannot stand not having Grandma with him. He keeps looking to his right. She's been dead almost two years but he keeps looking to his right to crack a joke.

And he sometimes gets really, really pissed off. That's why he got so wasted at your son's fifth birthday. He was literally angry at everyone in the family crowding together and running up to hug him and acting like they had a right to his attention. "Mona isn't here," the words kept running through his head. "Mona isn't here. I'm hers and I'll give nothing of myself to anyone but her." Then he stood up from the picnic table and fell down on the ground.

There's really no helping him out. When you're as old as he is, the cliche "time heals all wounds" only draws attention to the day you're gonna die. Just let him miss her, he wants to.

Happy Grandpa Misses Grandma Day!

Things The Song Did Day!

Today the song was played on a jukebox at a bar at 4:33 PM. The boy who played it didn't think it was a good idea to be in a bar alone at such an early hour, but the boy often acts on such ideas. He knows the bar well and the jukebox even better, but the boy had never known the song was in there, and he'd never before thought to look for it on that or any other jukebox. He found the song before he'd selected any others, but he didn't choose it immediately. He went looking for two other songs to play before it so that he'd have enough time to get back to his table and stare out the window and sigh a bit before the song came on. (He hated when his songs were wasted on him scrambling to pick out other songs). So the song played third and the boy had his legs crossed when it came on. The song made him play with his hair a bit, then he shook his head and laughed at himself a bit. Then he made a phone call to someone he thought it a bad idea to make a phone call to. The boy often acts on such ideas, but this time it wasn't his fault. The song did it.

Today the song woke her up at 9:43 AM. He asked if the music was too loud, and she didn't say "of course it is, it just woke me up." She didn't ask, "why are you playing music so early when your guest is clearly still asleep in your bed?" And she didn't ask if he was glad he'd brought her home with him last night (she knew he wasn't, they had that in common at least). Instead she said no, and laid back and listened to the song and decided to not move out of New York City. She would have to get ahold of her roommate and tell her she wasn't leaving, and she would have to wait until he went to take a shower before she could reach the few feet off the bed and push the button on the stereo that made the song play again. She knows choosing not to move means a lot more pain to come, but if it ever gets too hard she can always blame the song.

Today he hunted for the song like there was a bounty on its head. He looked in the pile of shit in the storage space above the closet but the disc wasn't there. He looked in the pile of shit he keeps meaning to sort out from underneath his bed but the disc wasn't there. He looked in the pile of shit he calls his CD collection but the disc wasn't there. So he got dressed and got in his car and drove (high, he'd smoked a half hour before) to Virgin and bought it. On the drive home (the song wasn't playing yet, stereo stolen nineteen months prior) he remembered who he gave the disc to (Clara). The song played at exactly 9:20 PM. It made him sing along in the mirror for the first minute and a half, then he had to go to the bathroom (not the song's fault). When he got back to his bedroom, he started the disc at the beginning because he felt there was something criminal in putting on a disc and listening out of sequence or skipping songs you don't like (Clara did that). The song played again at around 9:45 PM. It didn't make him sing again, though. He didn't notice it playing in fact. He was thinking about something else by then (Clara).

Happy Things The Song Did Day!

Assume You Dreamt It Day!

Today, if you stumble upon a horrible memory, whether it be having said the word "forever" in bed, or a man you hit with a car and left for dead when you were 17 and drunk, or the time you farted and got caught, or the time you got pregnant and had an abortionist suck the living, pain-experiencing, shrieking baby from inside your (God's) womb, or that whole "going to live with your uncle after your parents died and being forced to fellate him" phase you went through, or yesterday, in its entirety, assume you dreamt it.

But stay in bed. And don't answer the phone or check email or ever leave your bed. You dreamt it, it wasn't real, you'll be fine. (Don't go outside)

Happy Assume You Dreamt It Day!

Just The Night Then Day!

Let's say last night you held something in your arms that made you think you'd never held anything in your arms before in your life. No books, no cats, no grocery bags or laundry sacks. Last night was the night you learned what your arms were always meant to do. They were meant to hold something that's naked.

Today you're going to try to find out whether you can hold it again for as long as you can stand, for as long as you can keep from having to go to the bathroom. The answer might of course be "yes, of course" because of course you both know that's as the answer should be. Or the answer might be "no, not right now, not a very good time for me because I'm packing all my things and moving away to Washington State." Or the answer might be -silence-. And some waiting. And forgetting.

How to react:

yes, of course
Wash up, get on a train. Hurry fatso.


no, not right now, not a very good time for me because I'm packing all my things and moving away to Washington State
Say, "Just the night then." Hear, "Just the night then."


-silence-
Wait. A little longer. Say (to empty room), "Just the night then." Wait. Say (to empty room), "Just the night then." Wait. Say (to empty room), "Just the night then." Forget.

Happy Just The Night Then Day!

Where The Fuck Is My Dagger? said the man in the cloak Day!

Leonid Brasche was a Moscow plumber for most of his 20's and 30's. His position called for him to wear a cloak to protect his clothing from sewage should a clogged drain suddenly expel its contents without warning. And he liked to carry a dagger on his person at all times, firstly because it was handy for scraping congealed grime from the inside of drain pipes, and second, because when Leonid was 12 his father was murdered by a man to whom he'd lent some money. Stabbed he was, in the throat, out on the crowded Sunday street right in front of Leonid. His father had just bought bread and cream for that night's dinner. The food was on the ground in the snow. Dark dark blood surged from his father's neck into the white. The bread grew soggy with blood. Leonid stayed by his father until his breathing stopped. Then he ran home to fetch his mother. Not long after, dreams of revenge made him buy himself a second-hand dagger and carry it on his person at all times. He still has the same dagger.

When Brasche entered the spy game, he kept the old cloak because he saw no need to start spending just because he'd gotten a slight boost in pay. Plus, the cloak was helpful for spending nights in shadow. And though he had no real practical use for the dagger (he carried a gun, and he had no clogged pipes to deal with) he continued to keep it somewhere in his pockets. But Brasche was a forgetful man, often making himself late rummaging under seat cushions and into the bottom of desk drawers to locate the misplaced dagger. And many in the office would hear him bellow out his frustration with a "Where the fuck is my fucking dagger godammit!" Heads would turn and they'd see the man in the cloak behind his glass office walls tossing pillows in the air and lifting up chairs before eventually sliding his hand into one last unchecked pocket and retrieving the dagger with a shake of the head. This happened so often that when Brasche showed up to work in the morning, more than one person would shout out a jovial "Eh, cloak n' dagger! How they hangin'?"

And thus the words "cloak and dagger" would forever call to mind the world of international super-spies.

Happy Where The Fuck Is My Dagger? said the man in the cloak Day!

God Is So Into You Right Now Day!

God hasn't been able to take his eyes off of you all night long. Did you see how when that guy shot that arrow straight at your face God real clumsily intervened to make sure it killed the guy you've been sleeping with? And I swear, as soon as you complained of having forgotten to bring a sweater with you on such a chilly night, God made it like ten degrees warmer out. And how about when your mom called to say your grandmom just got up and started walking around her hospital bed, cleaning things. All because you got a little drunk and started crying about how you're scared your grandma might die soon. And you told me yesterday you just wish she would finally die so that you don't have to go visit her no more. You just wanted to cry about something in front of everybody again, didn't you? But God must not have known that because as soon as he saw a tear glint in your eye he made your grandma all better. He's a really chivalrous lover, God. He can't stand to see the girl he loves in the slightest distress. But he's also real jealous I think because he never would have made your grandma all better if he heard us talking the other day. I think God only pays attention to you when you're talking to other guys.

Anyway, you're lucky and I think you should give God some. I'd go crazy to have a boyfriend so into me that he'd, like, alter destiny and shit. I mean, people talk about considering the grand scheme of things. But as long as you have God pining after you, the grand scheme of things is gonna change every time you scrunch your brow.

Just don't play games. If you and God make it work, you're gonna be rich.

Happy God Is So Into You Right Now Day!

Reinvent The Wheel Day!

The wheel we have right now sucks. Reinvent it, goddammit, and this time give it the capacity to love. It's 2003!

Happy Reinvent The Wheel Day!

Waste Away The Day (Like You Have A Choice In The Matter?) Day!

Today, because you really couldn't imagine ever living your life in any other way, you should spend the day doing nothing at all productive and just sort of lay there. After a while, talk to your walls. Say something like, "Hello walls." If the walls say, "What up, ya'll?" or something, congratulations, your life has devolved to such a vague, insignificant existence that your walls perceive you as just another inanimate piece of furniture and so they think it's okay to shoot the shit with you.

Happy Waste Away The Day (Like You Have A Choice In The Matter?) Day!

Young Man, Pollute Me Day!

You like the dirty boy, he smells like laundry and he has a scratch of dried mustard streaking out from the corner of his mouth. He's younger than you, he's not as smart as you, and he doesn't really think he's going to amount to much. Fuck him tonight. Grab him by his belt when everyone else has left the table to smoke and say, "Young man, pollute me."

He won't be very good in bed, but you will feel full with a little boy's late evening filth, the filth that gathers after a day of playing outside, the filth that mothers ask little boys to wash from their hands before sitting down for dinner. You'll get what you want, you'll get to sit across from him next week and look at his raggedy form and think to yourself, "I have his grime inside of me."

He'll complain of hunger early tomorrow morning. Send him out with your key and he will bring you back some bagels. He is obedient. And if he gets coffee for himself or you, he will carry the coffee cup in the bag with the bagels, not caring that his pace will spill the coffee from the little airhole in the lid. And when he pulls the bagels from the bag, the bagels and their wax paper wrappers and the large pile of napkins will all be damp with a large black two sugars.

Happy Young Man, Pollute Me Day!

Your Supervisor Suffers From Pyromania Day!

It hits her every day around 3:30, when everyone else is getting ready for a group yawn. She slams her door shut, draws all the blinds, and then you see her phone line light up. You thought she was just making plans to see whoever she's cheating on her husband with. But she's not, she's very faithful, she's just calling her sponsor.

"I can see the flames flicker Harold. I can see them, Harold. They're just so motherfucking beautiful, Harold."

"Breathe."

Around 4:05 her phone line blinks off. And at 4:15, she comes back out and asks you to retype the memo you typed up earlier in the day. She's very calm then.

"Do you have any corrections?"

"It was fine I just....must have misplaced it."

You can sometimes smell the smoke underneath the sudden gust of air freshener wafting from her office.

While you fetch the memo from your hard drive, she goes to the window and takes sleek breaths, like she's smoking an imaginary cigarette.

She stays at the window until five, when you ask her if she needs anything else, and she dismisses you with a shake of the back of her head. As far as you know, she stays there all night. She did once.

Some nights, she stays until as late as nine or ten, when she's certain everyone has gone and the cleaners have finished their shift. She moves a copier from its spot on the floor and builds a small pile of documents and cardboard paper clip boxes and plastic report covers and a scarf or glove or some other item she might have worn to work that day and she lights a tiny blaze, tall enough get her blood into her ears, but small enough to stamp out after just a few moments before the smoke detectors sound. Then she sweeps the remains and the ash into a small trash bag that she'll toss into a dumpster on her walk home, and she'll slide the copier back overtop the scarred carpet. And the next day she'll know what's under there.

Wreckage. She did that.

Happy Your Supervisor Suffers From Pyromania Day!

If You Lay Down Long Enough, Someone Will Come By And Make Some Tea Day!

Hopeless? Sure! But that doesn't mean you're all alone. You've been staying in bed for a few days because it feels like no one cares if you ever get up and put some clothes on again, but that's right where you should be if you wanna get to the good stuff.

A lot of people don't know this because they get out of bed too soon. They either didn't crash hard enough or they felt guilty about people starving in far off lands so they say "ah fuck it you little baby" and they get out of bed and go to work and try to blend back into society (even though inside they just keep stabbing their own eyes out over and over again).

But you seem like you're in for the long haul. There'll be no get-up-and-go for you because you know for a fact that your pain, though caused by no identifiable occurrance, is the most horrible and sorrowful pain ever felt by anyone ever. A pain more palpable even than that felt by a Dad whose six-year-old just died. You're really sad and you ain't gonna budge.

That's why it's probably gonna happen today. You've stuck it out long enough, and sometime near evening there'll be a knock on your door. Obviously, you won't answer. So the door will just creak open and instead of it being your roommate asking if he can borrow your roll-on deodorant again, you'll see poke through the doorway the face of a mother.

Not your mother, mind you. The mother will look like either Vanessa Redgrave or Brenda Blethyn in Lovely And Amazing. The mother will shine her smile down upon you and say, "Are your dreams so entertaining that you'll not be coming down for dinner again tonight?"

You'll stay put (don't give up now), and you'll stay there on your side with your back to the mother who is opening up the blinds over the windows. You can't see her, but when there's a silence in the room, you can be certain she is standing in the middle of the floor with her head tilted to her right shoulder, offering the most sympathetic pout for her little baby. Then she stoops by your bed, kisses you on the back of the head, and she whispers to your hair, "I'll make us some tea. I haven't seen you in a while kiddo."

YES!

You pulled it off. In a few minutes you're going to be sitting up against your pillows and listening to the mother tell an inspiring story about how when her deceased husband (not your father, he looked like either Brendan Gleeson or a really old, fat Robert Sean Leonard) first met her, he was an awkward rude GI looking for a bed in her father's (not your grandfather, he looked like either Max Von Sydow or Jason Robards before he died) hotel in Holland. And he ate three dinners with the family before he asked her father if her could take his daughter back to the United States and make her his wife. He promised her father that she would never have an unhappy day for as long as she stood by his side, and he kept that promise.

When the mother finishes her story and her tea, she'll leave your apartment. That's your cue to get out of bed and try to find out where folks might be drinkin tonight.

Happy If You Lay Down Long Enough, Someone Will Come By And Make Some Tea Day!

The Blind Can Love Day!

Blind man walks into a park with a tap tap tap of one of those long plastic things. Blind man smells angry pant of breath from big dog mixed with especially hearty dollop of feminine perfume applied by a blind woman (blind women do that with their perfume) and concludes that said blind woman in same park is about to be attacked by big dog. Blind man on the scent, ya'll.

Tap tap tap goes the blind man into the middle of a jungle jim. The wind is heavy for mid-summer and he got thrown off the scent. But with a vigilant whiff he's back on track and he heads to the Five Corners just off Dog Run where he's certain that not a few feet away from him are a big dog and a blind lady sporting an odor that could only be concocted in the house of Claibourne.

The blind man dives into the airspace where he is certain the big dog is about to take flight straight for the blind lady's neck. He hears a guy say, "the fuck?" just before he thumps to the concrete and immediately lunges into the air from his spot on the ground to bearhug the big dog mid-flight before it can open the poor blind lady's neck.

The blind man grabs only damp summer air and falls back down again.

Tap tap tap goes the blind woman to where she heard the plop of person to concrete and she asks, "Did someone fall?" Blind man shouts, "The dog! The dog!"

Blind man and blind woman hear man say, "He's leashed. Settle down."

After enough seconds pass for a blush to fill a cheek and then fade, the blind man starts to giggle from his spot on the ground and the blind woman joins him with that laugh that only blind people can share, a laugh that says, "Holy shit does does living in a world of pitch black darkness suck or what?"

The laughter subsides and the blind woman gives a tap tap tap of her long plastic thing to the blind man's tummy and she says, "Hey hero. Buy you a beer?"

The blind man and the blind woman have a beer together and they fall in love and stay together for fifty thousand years never for one single second not loving each other with every inch of their long plastic things, and then the blind man dies and the blind woman waits to die for a while, happy that she got to love the blind man for all that time.

Happy The Blind Can Love Day!

The Raven Day!

The raven has been doing nothing but farting and fucking in that tree outside for the past nineteen years you lived in this house and every time you take a broom to the branch it just hops up one branch higher and continues about its business like it's perfectly natural for a raven in a tree to screw in plain sight of your kids and ailing mother-in-law. Shoot it. Blow the little omen-gone-gassy into a big burst of jet black down. And while you're at it, the azaleas haven't exactly been "churchly" of late.

Make all of nature pay.

Happy The Raven Day!